Highs and lows make Costa Brava a wild ride in dining

THE BUZZ

THE SCENE:
Casual, beach-influenced atmosphere. Most popular at happy hour: Seven days a week 4 to 7 p.m. on the patio with 50 percent off selected tapas and sangria.

THE BOTTOM LINE:
Tapas, soups and salads from $4 to $12; entrees $16 to $27; desserts $5 to $8

DON'T MISS:
Bacon-wrapped dates,
patatas a la brava

Costa Brava is a coastal region of northeastern Catalonia, Spain, known for pleasant summers, good fishing and nice beaches. Brava means “rugged” or “wild” in Spanish, and while the Pacific Beach restaurant that takes its name from the region may be near the coast, it is the dining experience that can be best described as rugged or wild.

Tucked away behind a high, dense, green hedge that insulates the patio from traffic on Garnet Avenue, Costa Brava is a traditional Spanish restaurant. Tapas-style dishes and larger entrees are served along with sangria to the soundtrack of live music or televised soccer games depending on the day of the week.

Our waiter called the paella a house specialty, and we ordered a two-person portion (the smallest available) immediately upon being seated since the dish can take over 30 minutes to prepare. The evening was off to a smooth start, the equivalent of a tranquil day on the shores of Catalonia. As we waited for the main event paella, we ordered a few tapas and the wild ride began.

The first dish to arrive was the
champiñones a la vinagretta
, simple, cold mushrooms in a marinade. They were well seasoned and the marinade was not too acidic. The serrano croquettes, thumb-sized fried wads of serrano ham, were uninspired. The waves were lapping against the shore, but not beckoning like a playful curl begging for a Boogie board ride.

It was a nice warm-up, and combined with being half way through our pitcher of sangria, which was well balanced but lacking in chunks of fruit, we were ready to venture into more exciting waters.

Next, a red pepper stuffed with crab, shrimp and cream cheese arrived. Suddenly, the pleasant day at the beach turned into a tempest. The pepper smelled perfectly normal, and even at first bite there appeared to be nothing wrong. Then it came — a wicked aftertaste. My face bent into a grimace as the distinct flavor of acetone filled my mouth and passed down my throat. Gulp. My companion's pepper was the same. It must be my mistake, I thought, as I gave it a second try. Nope, it really did taste like nail polish remover. It wasn't just bad, it was a mistake.

Luckily, the clouds cleared, the storm subsided, and lamb skewers and
patatas a la brava
arrived at our table. The lamb was well cooked, tender and juicy. The crispy potato wedges with a spicy cream sauce were delicious, and perhaps the very best part of the meal. The two items restored our faith in the Costa Brava kitchen, and we were ready to dive into the
paella mixta
, with shrimp, calamari, chicken and chorizo.

The rice, infused with chicken stock and saffron, tasted excellent. The shrimp were large and perfectly cooked. I plunged the spoon toward the bottom of the distinctive shallow pan (called a paella, hence the dish's name), trying to find my favorite part, the crusty, caramelized rice known as
socarrat
that is a signature of perfectly prepared paella.

It was not there. I was like a child lost on a crowded beach, bewildered and somewhat confused. The
socarrat
is the hardest part of making paella because the chef has to cook it long enough to caramelize the bottom layer of rice without burning it. Most paella recipes are adamant about not stirring or disturbing the rice after a certain point in the cooking process for this very reason. Costa Brava's paella appeared to have been overseen by anxious hands that could not resist agitating the rice.

In his recipe, José Andrés, the famed Spanish chef who is often credited with introducing tapas to the United States, calls
socarrat
the “best part.” Other recipes refer to it as “the prize” of paella. Some would argue that without the
socarrat
, it is not paella at all, but rather rice pilaf.

The meal at a close, we were weary from a dizzying evening of both moments of sunshine and storms. I told the waiter about the toxic stuffed peppers, suggesting the kitchen should know. He was more than apologetic, and offered a complimentary dish of flan with a very nice honey-based sauce. While I missed the “prize” of the
socarrat
, the highlights left me with the belief that Costa Brava had just had a rough day at the beach.